


And So He Returns. . .

by OropherionFANatic



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 04:23:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7251913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OropherionFANatic/pseuds/OropherionFANatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maglor Feanorian disappeared into the history books before the destruction of Beleriand, and none ever thought to ponder his name again. But what will happen when a certain pair of twin brothers find Feanor's last living son and reunite him with Elrond in Imladris? And how will the rest of Middle Earth's Eldar population react to an oath taker supposedly risen from the dead? The road to forgiveness will be long and hard, especially when the son of Oropher learns of Maglor's return. But with patience, guidance, and love, all obstacles can be overcome. This is a story of how Maglor Feanorian is returned to the world and accepted despite his dark past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Found

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! It's been a super long time since I've written anything and I apologize for that (that is, if you've missing me). I've had the idea for this story in my head for a long time and finally decided to record it in written words. Now I'm going to warn you, I've been out of writing shape for a while, so this may be rough. Bear with me and feel free to leave any reviews as long as you're respectful! I can't make any promises as to the speed of my chapter updates, so be warned. Despite all that, I hope you enjoy this story!
> 
> Also, please forgive me if I'm incorrect in any of my Tolkien knowledge. I do my best to research but am prone to mistakes as every human is! 
> 
> As always, all characters, names, and all things of Arda belong to the genius mind of J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm simply borrowing them to tell another tale.

They found him on a barren beach on a freezing autumn night. They had not expected to find anything here, let alone a living, breathing, sentient being. They had not expected to find one of their own kind, tall and broad and yet weathered and full of untold sorrow. They had not expected for that individual to have eyes the color of slate and filled with ancient knowledge and shadows of memories that could freeze one’s blood. They especially did not expect to find a sword hidden in his meager, bedraggled pallet, a sword shining with mithril and silver inlays, and engraved with a seven pointed star in the hilt. . . 

Yet they had been drawn here, to the northernmost reaches of Forlindon, where the waves lapped at the scarred landscape that had once been much, much more. There was nothing here for them, or so they knew – but it had not stopped them from directing their mounts towards the smell of bitter salt and sand. Perhaps, much later, they would realize that the calling had been more than intuition.

He did not run from them, though his muscles had tensed and locked akin to the body of a cornered deer. He did not fear them, but he feared what this might mean to one such as himself. He was alone, he was forsaken, he was cursed – he was a murderer. Long ago had he condemned himself to this solitary and solemn life of dusty grasslands and angry waves. The punishment was just, and yet it was not enough. He deserved much more – he deserved to suffer, to drown and suffocate in his sorrows and memories. He deserved a thousand deaths to match those that he had banished from this world with bloodthirsty, unfeeling metal. He deserved the cold and dampness that seeped into his weary bones, never to leave him, always to cradle him in the closeness of the death and decay he had brought upon his kin. He did not deserve to be found. He did not deserve to be. . . wanted. 

They approached him slowly, with feather soft voices that could gentle a nervous colt. Questions spilled from their curious lips, most of which his tired mind was too fatigued to try and process. It had been a long, long time since he had conversed with another. Words were like shadows in his mind – visible, though faint and with blurred edges. He nearly cried at the sound of another voice, so warm and welcoming. Yet another thing he did not deserve. 

There were two of them, and as his ancient eyes peeked up from the unkempt waterfall of raven hair that fell over his shoulder and around his trembling knees, he was surprised to see that they looked exactly alike – twins. And, to the muddled shock of his clouded brain, they seemed almost familiar. Familiar enough to send a jolt of hopeful, lively energy bounding through his heart, only to be quashed moments later by the reminder that he, the kinslayer, deserved nothing. Not even the memory of the ones he had loved. 

They were cautious as any skilled ranger could be when they happened upon a stranger – and indeed, they seemed very skilled, with their honed muscles, graceful movements, and mithril longswords peeking through the well-worn leather of sword belts. But when they realized that he would not offer the least bit resistance, would not even move from his seat upon a driftwood log even when urged by their gentle words, they moved closer. One on each side, closing him in, trapping him, preventing him from living out his life in grievous solitude. 

One laid a hand on his shoulder, fingers moving ever so slowly and barely brushing against his worn tunic before sliding, a hair’s breadth at a time, closer to rest completely against his form. He was certain that the warrior had felt the shiver of his skin, the twitch of nervousness that sent the breath barreling from his chest. Thousands of years had passed without the touch of another upon his body. He had only felt the roughness of the rocky sand and the grabbing weightlessness of the sea. Never, not once, had he felt the warmth of another soul, living and glowing with the golden light of the fea. The touch was like a jolt of lightening, and at the same time, as soft and enticing as a lover’s embrace. The feel of it sent memories cascading back into his mind, and he could not stop the sobs that broke from his chest. 

The two ellons did not know the source of his grief, but they tried sincerely to console him. Nothing could dry the tears that now fell from his stone-grey eyes. Thousands of years of solitude, of freezing winters and scorching summers, of wind beating and pulling at his tangled hair, of sand grazing once milk-smooth skin, of silent days and even more silent nights, except for the times when his victims voices screamed, screamed, screamed in his ears, and on those nights he did not sleep one minute. Thousands of years of loneliness and the agony of loss, of seeing his brothers’ bruised and broken bodies, covered in blood and flies and filth. Years that had seen the pass of time, and with it, no knowledge of what lay in the world beyond his sight. And yet now, on the eve of another dark, silent night, two strangers had broken the promise of exile. 

They told him that he was safe, that they would take him back to where they had come from. He said nothing as they examined the rest of his pitiful camp, nudging handmade dishes and roughly cured animal hides that served as bedding. They bid him to reveal his name, but still he would not speak. Of course, they need not require an admission when one of them found his sword, buried in the furs and wrapped tightly in fraying fabric. The star of Feanor gleamed like molten silver in the moonlight. It was his namesake, and his damnation. 

The recognition in their eyes was as evident as any spoken word. Yet still they were not unkind to him. They did not berate him or blame him, they did not call him names or kick sand upon his huddled body as he deserved. They moved even slower and more carefully around him, whispering and cooing softly, trying to encourage him to speak. His mouth remained sealed shut, the muscles below his cheekbones strained and solid. His eyes were hooded, his head hung and gaze settled on the sand between his feet. His hair he allowed to conceal his face, as if it were the thick wall that would protect him from all the uncertainty of the world beyond. 

Still no resistance was offered even as they laid their hands upon him, carefully and securely gripping his arms. He bit his tongue as they lifted him, his breath fled from his lungs and he felt as if he would never retrieve it. He wanted to run, escape back to the shadows and the black safety of his self-inflicted solitude where he deserved to reside. These two rangers promised uncertainty and opportunity. They promised warmth and compassion, touch and voice. All things which he could never allow himself after what he had done.

Yet a traitorous part of his heart, so deep and sunken that its hopeful voice was nothing more than an airy gasp, pleaded that he give up his eternal banishment. Go with them, it said. Let them guide you, let them warm you with their spirits and fill your ears with the honeyed music of a living voice. . . Let them hold you and dry your tears, let them carry you away from this barren wasteland. Believe them, trust them. You have suffered enough. 

It was that small voice that stilled his retaliation and quieted the shaking of straining muscles. He allowed himself to be led to one of their mounts, tall and black as the night itself. He allowed the tender grasp of hands that lifted him up into the supple leather saddle. He allowed one of the ellons to slide up behind him and wrap an arm around his waist, once more trapping him – or was it protecting him? His mind was too weary and tangled with vines of sorrow and self-doubt to decipher the actions of others. He had lost the ability to understand what certain gestures and actions could mean, or perhaps he simply had lost the will to recall that ability . . . after all, four thousand years of lonely wandering did not make for superior socialization skills. 

It was strange, though, the effect that the lean, warm body pressed against his back had on his flighty spirit. The warmth from the warrior behind him was like an amber light seeping into his fatigued bones and cramped muscles. It was like a river of golden heat oozing into his veins and drifting through his body, willing him to relax, to let go of his doubts and inhibitions. It turned the soul-heavy weariness in his heart into simple tiredness, weighting his eyelids like stones. He leaned back into that heat and surrendered to its enticing depths, succumbing to his weakness. He cared not what would happen to him. 

He slept. 

When he woke next it was without knowledge of how much time had passed. They were moving fast, the horses at full gallop and carrying their masters with utmost efficiency. Even with the jarring pace he was able to keep balance, though the arm still wrapped around his waist most definitely helped to keep him settled. He did not speak, only sank his hands into the black mane of the stallion that carried them and surrendered himself to the motion. 

It was like this for a long time, longer than he thought possible for the horses and their riders. But these were no ordinary horses, as he soon discovered. They were as proud and fearless as the warriors that they carried, and exhaustion seemed to flee from their powerful muscles.  
They stopped for a time when the moon was high in the sky. The twin warriors tried to speak to him again and tried to encourage him to share his name, his history, his thoughts, anything to break him free of his depressive shell. Though in truth they knew who he was. Perhaps they wanted to hear the confession from his own lips to solidify their discovery. 

He did not speak, did not even wish to meet their eyes. As kind as they were, his soul was weary and exhausted from the stimulation suddenly thrust into his monotone exile. He wanted only to curl up and hide himself in the cloak they draped over his shoulders. Perhaps if he could disappear from the world it would not hate him for giving in to his weak heart’s desire to at last feel the presence of another living soul. 

They fed him a sweet, sustaining bread that was packed in wide green leaves. It filled his belly, a not unpleasant feeling, and sent energy thrumming through his limbs. Next they offered him a flask, which he tried to decline by turning his head away – but they insisted, and gently coaxed him to drink. The liquid that quenched his throat was rich and fruity. It had a whole, invigorating taste and set his extremities to tingling. The feeling was one that he had lived for thousands of years without. A meager diet of fish and rainwater, and whatever other provisions he could scavenge, had sustained him for so long . . . He hated himself at once for being subject to this pleasurable sustenance – but simultaneously something deep in his heart twitched, seeking out the new life that was offered to him with shaking, desperate arms. A crack etched its way through his protective shell, and he did not have the yearning to patch it. 

They encouraged him to sleep and build his strength, a thing which was obviously meager in his limbs. One disappeared into the silvery light of the night to keep guard; the other laid down behind him, moving so close that he could feel the radiating heat from the other body. A hand rested on his shoulder, light in its touch. There was no threat in that hand, however – he sensed that the ellon had initiated contact in part to comfort him and offer the security of his presence, but also in part to keep track of his movements. They were afraid that he would run. 

They needn’t have such a fear. 

He slept through the night, even when the two brothers switched positions. The presence of another at his side, though alien and strange after lifetimes alone, was inherently comforting. He slept deeper that night than any other for the majority of his exile. 

When they woke him before dawn he rose without a word and took the food that they offered. His head felt a little clearer; his heart felt a little lighter. Something was changing in him, and it both terrified and elated him. He still would not speak, however, keeping to himself in his self-inflicted disgrace and guilt. His guardians respected his silence and did not pry. They all mounted the horses shortly before sunrise and continued the journey to where he knew not. 

They continued like this for days, and eventually the landscape began to change from the barren grassland littered with clumps of gray boulders. The smell of the ocean disappeared and was replaced with a fresh, earthy aroma that chased the gray melancholy from the air. Mountains sprung up from the flatlands and flaunted their jagged teeth in the near horizon. They veered north of these, navigating the less intense foothills that hugged the rocky slopes. More days passed and saw the landscape transform from jagged peaks to softly rolling hills and dells covered in emerald green grass and copses of trees with leaves the color of amber and gold. Small streams snaked along the gently rolling slopes and cascaded over moss-covered rocks, and where once the land supported little life, now small herds of deer roamed in the safe distance, and the chatter of birdsong flitted down gaily from the treetops. 

They stopped once at the banks of a larger stream. The two brothers suggested a bath, at which he was not disinclined. They kept a respectful distance from him as he disrobed, but he could still feel their eyes on his back as he waded in the chilly water. He took the opportunity to run his fingers through his knotted hair, which had grown far beyond the level of his hips. Minutes passed and he gained no advantage over the clinging, tangled locks. It was rare that elven hair would become so unkempt, but when one did not comb their hair for the period of thousands of years . . . the outcome was less than savory. 

The twins must have took pity on him, for they approached and offered to work on the thick raven mane. After a moment’s hesitation he nodded, sitting down upon the grassy bank and drawing his knees to his chest as the two settled behind him. It was strange, he thought, how he had only met these two days ago, and yet felt completely safe in their presence. He felt no need to be suspicious or wary, felt no hint of threat from their dark, compassionate eyes, though in truth they were a fearsome sight to behold at times. They were strong and tall, with broadness that spoke of years of battles, and a calculating gleam in their visage that spoke of intelligence beyond that of a civilian. These two were lordly, of that he had no doubt. Despite their intentions to keep him in their custody, he knew that they meant him no harm or hardship. They were taking him somewhere, somewhere important – though they obviously had no inclination of disclosing their plans. 

They worked on his hair for a good deal of time, tugging gently at the tangles and massaging his scalp with their lithe fingers. He hadn’t realized the tenseness of his muscles until one of the brothers grasped his shoulders and rubbed, slowly and lightly at first in case he protested – but then increasing in firmness. There was no intimacy in the touch, only a close friendliness and kindness that filled his body with a surprising warmth and caused his eyes to well with emotion. He put a hand to his face to try and stop the tears, but the effort was wasted. Soon his shoulders were shaking with the force of his sobbing and little gasps filled with the strain of relief and acceptance bled through his fingers. His tears felt like a betrayal and at the same time a release. The twins understood, and held him firmly in their arms until at last his body stilled and his tears dried. 

The two brothers had cut his hair, with a permissive nod, to the length of his hips in order to remove the last of the knots. They then braided it in a long, tight plait to protect it from travel. When their work was finished they helped him off the ground and assisted him in dressing, giving him one of their own tunics to wear and packing his old one away. After a quick meal they continued their journey, the horses setting out tirelessly – as if they sensed the end was near, and hurried all the faster to reach home. 

Days and days bled into a blur, a never-ending cycle of riding and halting, eating and sleeping, waking and continuing on. The scenery grew even greener and filled with larger groves of trees and even small forests, though they continued to ride through the supple grassy meadows and pitch camp near swollen streams. The weather was fair for their journey, though the clouds broke open and rained their bounty upon their heads for two days. They continued onwards, through all weather and terrain, heading towards a destination that only the brothers knew. 

Through all this time he did not speak, did not resist, did not offer a spark of emotion beyond the tears that would well in his eyes at the contact that he was still acclimating to. A stray touch or a kind word might cause his chest to tighten and wetness to flood his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to ward off his chaotic emotions. One did not simply heal after living thousands of years alone with only pain and grief to keep them company. 

The twins were kind to him, however, and never once chastised his weaknesses or showed impatience when he needed distance. They did not pry him for the words that they knew would have to come in time, when he was ready to speak them. They accepted his silence and his hurting heart, knowing exactly when he needed their reassurances and soft touches. He did not completely understand their kindness or their eagerness to reach this place that was so far from where he had exiled himself. He did not understand why they handled him so carefully, as if he were a lost relic that would break with the slightest breath of wind. And he did not understand why their appearances unsettled him and yet sparked a tiny flame of recognition in his heart. Somewhere, deep within the shadows of his memories, something pulled at him and whispered his name, bidding him to listen and remember. Perhaps he knew the truth, but he was unable to accept any small possibility of the absurd reasoning of his tired mind. It simply could not be, this notion – it was impossible. And therefore, he would not think of it. 

Come what may, he thought. His fate was no longer in his hands. Whatever end was waiting for him was the end that he would accept with open arms. 

It was weeks later, with the days having melded into one contorted mass of green scenery and smells of pines and wildflowers, that mountains appeared in the haze of the horizon. He thought that his eyes were playing tricks on him, but it was not so, for with each passing hour the jagged teeth of the land grew closer and clearer. By now he was able to push aside the wander and awe of this new land, which he had not seen in his days before his exile, and instead look at the changing scenery with an accepting nonchalance. The mountains, however, brought a thrill of energy to his heart that caused it to beat like a drum within his chest. He could sense something in those mountains, closer than ever. It was their destination, the end of their ceaseless road, and something waited there for him. 

They continued to ride even as night fell on the land. The moon was full and bright enough to light the surroundings for their sharp elven eyes. The path was crowded with trees, dips, and hollows, with outcroppings of stone dotting the ever rising ground. Soon they were within the arms of the mountains and galloping along paths that hugged the slopes and cut along steep ridges, though the horses faltered not one step. They were sure of foot and fearless under their masters’ firm grip and did not stray from the perilous path. On and on they went until suddenly around a ridge appeared a long, thin bridge, and beyond that bridge. . . 

His heart nearly stopped at the sight before him. It was a city – an elven city, with graceful spires and ornate architecture that pulled at his memories. Even from their distance he could see the delicate paths snaking between white buildings and stunning gardens, waterfalls cresting over strategic elevations, gazebos and decks dotting the walls, and courtyards filled with vibrant flowers. Further away from the most concentrated areas were large gardens filled with all sorts of legumes and fruits, and pastures where even now he could spot horses and cattle grazing. The whole city was nestled against the mountainside and surrounded by forest, with monstrous waterfalls cascading at all sides. Even in the dark it was beautiful, a true sight to behold. He could scarce believe that such a wonderful place now lay before him. 

Though with his longing also came fear – fear of who lived in this city and how they would accept him if they knew who he was. He had committed unspeakable crimes against his people in his past and was hated by many, if not all, who knew his name. He had been considered heartless and ignorant, and now what would they think of him? Broken, and pitiful, yet deserving no pity. That was why he had chosen to wander the reaches of the world until the end of time. He did not deserve the comforts of a city and its people, did not deserve to smile and laugh and dance with his kin. He had taken life from so many, and in return had lost all that was dear to him. Why should he even live when there was nothing left to live for? 

Yet he had surrendered himself to the wills of these twin warriors, and he would not stop them as they carried him closer and closer. Whereas he had felt the warm light of excitement in his heart he now felt a gray shroud of uncertainty and anxiety, seeping through his blood like poison. It whispered doubts in his mind and pulled his guilt to the surface, constricting around his chest like a great serpent. He knew that the ellon behind him sensed the change of his emotion, for a hand rested on his shoulder and squeezed firmly, offering strength. Whispered words of encouragement met his ears and bid him to be calm. Something, someone, waited for him within these walls, they said. It was someone that may be able to change the course of his life. 

He hung his head as they passed through quiet streets, the horses’ shod hooves echoing sharply as the only noise. They came upon a large house, as big as some of the small palaces he remembered from his boyhood days in Valinor. He barely had time to register the small details before they dismounted and ushered him through a row of pillars that led to a courtyard, and through the courtyard to a set of large wooden doors, which they promptly opened and hurried inside. He tried to catch glimpses of the décor as he was led through hallways and passages, though everything was passing so quickly that his sensory-deprived mind had trouble processing it all. The brothers led him up a staircase and down another hall, then finally stopped at another ornate door and opened it wide. Inside was what looked like an office, large and spacious and well-used. It was lit by the light of the moon which shone through wide paned windows behind the long desk littered with scrolls and books. Lanterns hung dark upon the walls. The twins led him inside and lit the lanterns with a burning candle that they had procured from the hallway. They then bid him to stay, that all would be explained soon – and then they left, shutting the door behind him. 

He was alone once again, though this time enclosed in a building that was obviously inhabited and well used. He had not been in a building like this, much less in a city at all, in many lifetimes. The shock of it came flooding into his limbs all at once, both energizing him and freezing him. Too much had happened too fast. He had no idea where he was, or who inhabited this place, or what would happen to him now. He sensed no ill will within these walls, though the thought of the unknown disturbed him greatly. There were many individuals who would pay a hefty price to see him dead, or at least handed over to the Valar, who would no doubt punish him for his thoughtless deeds. He was not sure that death was the most gruesome fate that awaited him. The thought of standing before Manwe, with all truths and imperfections laid bare before the one who made all judgements concerning the lives of the Eldar, made his stomach twist and his skin crawl. He was not sure that he could face the Valar and keep his mind intact. 

His smoldering pit of guilt and apprehension was suddenly exhausted as the door opened once more behind him. It was one pair of footsteps that met his ears, and the gait, though similar, was not that of the twins. It was halting and light, as if the individual could barely cross the threshold. The newcomer halted behind him and the sound of a deep breath exhaling filled the dim office. With a sense of trepidation he turned to face the unknown – 

And fell to his knees as all strength left his body. 

His voice, lost all these past weeks of travel, returned to gasp out one choked, incredulous, and emotion-filled name. 

“Elrond.”

The eyes that met his were filled with disbelief, then recognition, then the brightest love. The voice, as he remembered it, was like a calming spring rain upon his frayed nerves. It uttered one name back, a name that had not graced his ears since the death of Maedhros and the beginning of his exile. 

“Maglor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that chapter was pretty much a blur, right? But don't worry, it's only because it's the opener. I hope to have the next chapter up soon, which will detail the reunion of Maglor and Elrond. There's plenty of gushy emotions to come, so stay tuned!


	2. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor is reunited with his long lost friend and adoptive-son, Elrond. Galadriel has a vision, Thranduil has a nightmare, and Elrond helps Maglor to feel again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO this chapter is super long, eh? I don't think many chapters will be this long, but it didn't seem right to omit anything that's been posted here. So hopefully the words won't drone on too horribly and you'll enjoy a bit of extra reading. And please let me know if I've gotten a Sindarin word wrong. I'm not too keen on using elvish because I'm no expert, yet there are some terms and endearments that I like to keep in my writing. So let me know and maybe leave a review if you like the chapter! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Oh, and there's a bit of Mature activity that goes in near the end. Nothing too descriptive but some M/M intimacy. Just thought I'd warn you. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Once again, all characters, names, settings, etc. belong to the wonderful J.R.R. Tolkien! I'm just writing this for fun, not profit!

Maglor could not describe the explosive feeling that enveloped his chest and spread down his limbs until he felt as if his body had been completely reborn. His heart beat with a new rhythm that was strong, lively, and hopeful. The shadowy fog obscuring the corners of his mind lifted, if only for a moment, so that he could gaze upon the elf standing at the doorway with clarity. The sight of him, of Elrond, was like the sliver of light that pierces through the shroud of blackness at the dawn of the day. This was Elrond Earendilian – Maglor would not have mistaken his visage even after the age of a world. He was older, much older than Maglor’s memories allowed him to imagine; but he was even more beautiful. The age of an elf did not diminish his appearance as it did the mortal races. Instead it only shaped him with wisdom and enlightenment. His hair was still the color of dark earth, as Maglor remembered it, and was as glossy as the surface of a polished sword. His skin was smooth and pale, the angles of his face were still lordly and slightly less angular because of his human blood (though not any less alluring), and his eyes. . . Maglor could never forgot those eyes. They were a darker gray than his own and filled with wisdom, compassion, and a sense of perception that never proved wrong. Those eyes could look through the skin and see the soul that hid within; they could read the energy that radiated from an individual’s body like a detailed book. Those eyes now gazed down at the kneeling Feanorian with sincere warmth, causing Maglor’s heart to nearly burst with long forgotten adoration. 

“Elrond . . . I had not . . . I did not dare to hope . . .” Maglor ground out, the words strained and unfamiliar in his throat. His hands shook where they rested on the floor, unable to control their movement from the unstoppable onslaught of fierce emotion. 

Elrond rushed forward, dropping to the floor in front of Maglor and placing his hands on the sides of his face. His nose was mere centimeters from Maglor’s own as his eyes ran over the elder elf’s features, searching up and down, up and down, as if seeking out something that would disprove the reality of his old guardian’s presence. His fingers moved in circles on Maglor’s skin, stroking and feeling and reassuring that this elf, this Feanorian legend, was truly and completely real. 

“Maglor . . . Valar, I . . . is this a dream?” He slowly slid his hands over Maglor’s face, feeling every small angle and crevice to commit to memory. The Feanorian merely sat still with incredulity, his own eyes starting to moisten with tears that spoke of love and relief. 

“I do not know . . . “ Maglor shakily replied, staring as if dumbstruck at the elf before him. 

After a moment of reassuring himself that Maglor was indeed not a figment of his imagination Elrond dropped his hands and pulled Maglor into a tight embrace, smashing their bodies together without grace. The desperate yearning of his heart was apparent in the vicelike hold of his strong arms. “Maglor, my friend, my old and dearest friend, my guardian . . . if I had thought you were alive . . . if I had known . . .” His fervent words faded into the warmth of Maglor’s shoulder, though the implied meaning was clear enough. 

Maglor closed his eyes and surrendered to the fierce embrace, finally raising his arms and curling them around Elrond’s shoulders – real shoulders, not a figment of his imagination. “I was supposed to be dead, Elrond,” he breathed, squeezing his eyes shut, “No one knew.”

At those words Elrond pulled back slightly, his storm-gray eyes boring into Maglor’s slate orbs. “Dead? What do you mean?” His fingers caressed Maglor’s cheek as if he were made of the most delicate glass. “Do not say such things!” 

Maglor leaned into the touch, brow furrowed with contrition. “You know my past, Elrond. You know what I have done . . . the lives I’ve taken, the blood I’ve spilt . . . I should have died.” His grip on Elrond’s heavy robe tightened. His voice quieted and his throat constricted as memories came flooding to his mind. “I came close to death so many times . . . when I left you and Elros . . . there was war, and the Maia, and so much blood and violence . . . the Silmarils, we took them . . . and Maedhros, he . . . he . . . “ Images of vast armies, massive winged beasts, and endless fires flashed across his mind. He saw the great and terrible white light of his father’s Silmarils, felt them burn his hand like molten flame, saw his brother walk off the edge of a mountain and disappear from sight. He felt his heart wrenched from his chest all over again and gasped at the intensity of his anguish, his fingers digging into Elrond’s shoulders.

Elrond sensed the agony in Maglor’s mind and held him close, running a hand over his braided hair. “Shhh, it’s alright. Hush. You are not meant for death. You are safe now, Maglor, and you are not alone. I’m here.” He eased Maglor’s head down until his forehead rested in the elegant curve of Elrond’s neck. The Feanorian struggled to regain a normal breathing pattern, but the sobs now wracking his chest made that impossible. He held all the tighter to Elrond’s robes, nails pinching the skin beneath, but the peredhel ignored the dull pain. He held Maglor as the elder elf had once held him as a child when he had been alone and afraid of the horrors beyond their doorstep. Many a night had Maglor and his brother Maedhros comforted Elrond and his twin brother, tucking them within warm quilts and singing ancient lullabies for their weary ears. Maglor had seemed so strong then, so fearless and with a level mind that always brought sense to a terrifying situation. Now it seemed that their roles had flipped. 

Moments passed in broken silence as the two elves huddled on the polished floor, bathed in the sweet light of the lanterns and the faint silver coolness of the waning moon. Eventually Maglor began to quiet, regaining his composure enough to relent his death grip on Elrond’s shoulders. He raised his head and found Elrond gazing at him with concerned eyes that were still filled with undeserved love. Elrond had always been so smart and wise, yet always so positive and trusting. He had convinced his twin brother Elros to open his heart to the last two sons of Feanor, who had only hours before slain hundreds of his people and chased his mother over a cliff for the sake of a gem. He had always been so compassionate and sought to please his guardians – qualities that now seemed foolish to Maglor, who knew that he had never deserved such eternal adoration. 

“I should have never left you and your brother,” he whispered. 

Elrond shook his head. “You had to. I understood.”

“No.” The word was resolute and full of regret. “It does not matter if you understood or not. I hurt you, and that was not the only time.” 

Elrond’s expression softened in empathy and sadness. He took Maglor’s face in his hands and brought it close, holding it firmly and fixating on the Feanorian’s dejected eyes. “The past is the past, Maglor. What you’ve done, whether to me or others, does not matter here.” He leaned forward and pressed a feather light kiss to Maglor’s forehead, the warmth and tenderness of his lips conveying his undying love. When he pulled away a faint smile graced his visage and his eyes brimmed with moisture. “I never thought I would see you again. I thought you had died, or been killed or stolen away, or swallowed by the sea and buried by the destruction that war wrought upon this land. I never thought to hope that perhaps, someday, you would return to me . . .” The timbre of his voice, always strong and steady, now wavered with the intensity of his emotional elation. “But you are here, Maglor. You were somehow found by my sons, and they possessed the aptitude to recognize your importance and bring you to me. How has that happened, after all this time, if not by fate? How could you say that you are meant for death when you are here, alive and breathing, in my arms?” 

Maglor was struck silent by the force of Elrond’s words, his heart pounding like a drum within his chest. His fëa, though still locked in the shadows of sorrow and regret, was receptive to the love radiating from the peredhel and let it pass over his protective wall. It was like a glowing river that seeped through his veins and breathed life into his muscles, reminding him that perhaps he did have something left to live for. 

There were many things he could have said, and a small part of his mind grabbed on to the mystery of who he now knew were Elrond’s twin sons, but instead he clenched his teeth and surged forward once more, burying Elrond in a massive hug. His voice was barely audible as he breathed “I have missed you.” 

They sat again in silence until Maglor suddenly pulled back, face apprehensively crestfallen. The thought of twins had brought another question to his lips. “Your brother, Elros . . . is he . . .” He could not finish his words, but his intended meaning hung heavy in the air. 

Elrond calmly nodded. “You know the path he chose. He was not afraid, even at the end.” 

Grief squeezed at Maglor’s heart like a vice. “I should have been there for you . . .”

“It’s alright, I was not alone. I was consoled by many at Elros’ death, but nothing could have eased the pain except time.” Elrond reached out and tucked a loose piece of raven hair behind Maglor’s ear. “I have accepted my brother’s choice after all these years. Nothing, and no one, would have changed his mind.” 

Maglor sighed, hanging his head and closing his eyes. “I suppose not,” he whispered bitterly, pressing his fingers to his forehead. After a moment he straightened his back, locking his gaze with Elrond’s. “I loved you two from the moment I saw you huddled in Sirion. I kept on loving you, even when I left to fulfill my Oath. I wanted you both to be safe and happy. That’s all I wanted, and I am sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you because of it.” He held tight to the one who had been like a son to him, never wanting to let go again. 

Elrond rested his forehead against Maglor’s, smiling sympathetically. “I blame you for nothing, Maglor Feanorian. I am only happy to have you at my side once again.” After a moment he pulled back and pushed himself to his feet, grasping Maglor’s biceps and lifting him from the floor. “You must be weary from the long journey. Perhaps you’d like a bath, and some food? And some clean clothes as well – these look like they’ve been stamped on by an army of dwarves.” He picked at the sleeve of Maglor’s borrowed tunic, dust and horse hair wafting into the air when he released the fabric. 

Maglor nodded, though his expression was unsure and hesitant. “Yes . . . but I have not had a proper bath or meal since I can remember. I just . . . this is so much to take in all at once. I can’t help but feel as if I don’t deserve any of it –“ He was promptly cut off by Elrond’s finger pressing against his chapped lips. 

“Hush. You will accept what you are given, Maglor. If your fate was meant to be any different you would not be here. Do you understand?” 

Stray locks of ebony hair fell from Maglor’s bedraggled braid as he inclined his head. “I will do my best. I must admit, it is a comfort to at least be with you again.” 

Elrond grinned, taking Maglor’s hand in his own and leading him towards the door, which still stood open from the excitement earlier. “And I will not leave your side, Maglor. Not tonight.” He closed the door behind them as they exited the office, hinges sliding silently closed. “I will help you with your bath and give you some of my own robes to wear. Someone will find you a room in the morning, but tonight you will stay with me.” At these words Maglor halted, pulling back against the stone wall. 

“You wish for me to stay here . . . in this house? Would you not think it best if I reside somewhere . . . far from others?” The familiar crushing doubt tugged at his mind. Images of elves cursing his name and running from him in fear crawled across his vision; his view faded into the redness of the blood of his victims and the smell of copper and rot invaded his nose, making him suck in a panicked lungful of air. He closed his eyes, forehead tightening with distress at the memories that plagued him like a sickness. He fought to suppress them, to secure them back into the darkest reaches of his mind – but this time he was not alone in his struggle. 

Calming hands rested against the sides of his neck, fingers caressing his jawbone with soothing intent. A strange calm settled into his bones. “Do not fear, Maglor. The people here will accept you. We are a peaceful, open-minded folk living a prosperous life. Your past will not bury you within these walls.” The soft tenor of his voice comforted Maglor’s frayed nerves and quieted the wild beating of his heart. He closed his eyes and swallowed his anxiety, then exhaled long and tiredly. His weak nod was reassurance to the perehel.

When he had regained his bearings he allowed Elrond to lead him onward, his eyes grazing over the intricate stonework of the hall they passed through. “Where exactly am I, Elrond? What is this place?” 

Elrond squeezed his hand and gave a bright smile, pride and love spilling from his eyes as he answered, “You are in Imladris, and in the House of Elrond. I founded this city, Maglor, for all those who needed a safe place to live their lives. There are many here of different ancestries, for all are welcome. This is a safe place, a place for love and laughter, and also for healing. No evil lives within this valley.” 

Surprise was evident in Maglor’s expression. He had always thought that Elrond would live an eventful life, especially when he had instructed him to serve under the high king Gil-Galad. Yet to hear him proclaim that this city was his creation, and all for the well-being of others, brought a warm wave of pride to Maglor’s heart. 

“Elrond . . . it is beautiful. This place . . . And to share it with so many. You must have many who adore you.” 

Elrond gave a small chuckle, eyes seeing memories that belonged only to him. “I have a family here, Maglor. My two sons, which by the grace of Valar brought you home to me. And a beautiful daughter. And so many friends who feel like family – you will have to meet them all.” 

At the uncertainty on Maglor’s face Elrond faltered, then smiled encouragingly. “In time, my friend. You shall meet them in time.” 

Maglor only nodded, his gaze falling to the floor as they walked. “Your sons . . . they are twins. Like you and Elros.” His hand tightened its grip on Elrond’s fingers. “When I first saw them I thought that something seemed familiar . . . I might have thought of you and your brother, if I had allowed myself. But my heart would not permit me to hope . . . it would not see the truth laid out before me.” He paused and worked his lips in frustration, brow furrowed unhappily. “I did not even speak to them the entire journey. I had not the strength but . . . they must think that I am a wretched thing.” 

Elrond shook his head. “They understand, Maglor. They think no less of you. I’m sure they will be pleased to speak with you when you are ready.” 

They came to a set of double wooden doors inlaid with swirling designs of silver mithril, handles gracefully twisted with elven design. Elrond halted at the threshold and reached out for the handle, pulling the heavy door open slowly. 

“Elrond, you speak of your children yet . . . you have not mentioned a wife.” Maglor’s voice was cautious and halting, as if he already suspected the reason for this occurrence. “Why is this?” 

Elrond halted his movement, body frozen with one hand on the door handle. It was only for a moment, however, and he turned slowly to face Maglor with a melancholy smile. “Much has happened in the years since you’ve been gone, Maglor. Much more than can be told in one night.” He opened the door completely and revealed the space inside. Maglor could see that this was some sort of entrance room with comfortable couches and chairs for lounging and a low, wide table in the middle graced with a vase of lilies. The walls seemed to be sculpted out of stone, with reliefs of trees and flowers and historical scenes. Candelabras stood diligent at intervals, their wax towers burning low in the night. The room was also lit only by the light from two tall windows and the faint glow of another room that lay through an archway deeper within. It reminded Maglor of the comfortable rooms he had inhabited in his father’s home in Valinor, though nothing would ever compare to the shining opulence of that sacred place. 

“Come inside, and I will tell you what I can.” 

Maglor shared an empathetic look with Elrond then inclined his chin, walking through the doorway into the elven lords’s private rooms. 

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Far away, in a golden forest that lay across the mountains and slightly to the south, another elf woke suddenly from a deep reverie. Images of long forgotten faces and journeys had played across her mind, as vivid and clear as the cloudless sky. Elves whose features she had committed to the past now stood out like torches in her thoughts, as if they had presented themselves before her not hours ago. She felt the rumbling of the earth from wars long passed, saw the blood stained banners of massacred armies, smelled the sweat and steel and filth that bathed the battlefields of old. And then the carnage cleared; she saw seven figures standing before her, some with hair black as night, others with golden locks, and three with russet waves. One by one these brothers fell until only one was left standing, and this one stepped forward until his visage glowed in the light. His eyes were shrouded in sorrow and his face was haunted, but his voice was strong and beautiful as she recalled when he called out, “Artanis.” 

And it was then that she knew. This was not a message from Makalaurë himself, but the unconscious touch of his fea to hers. She knew what this meant, what new possibilities it entailed, and that realization caused her to shoot up from her bed like a bow string. 

The elven lord who had been dozing beside her now stirred and sighed, drawing the covers close against his chest. “My love . . . what is it?” 

Her lips spoke no words, instead tweaking upwards on one corner of her mouth. She drew back the covers from her legs and settled her feet on the smooth wooden floor, relishing the cool, grounding touch. 

At this anticipatory silence her husband lifted his head, gazing up at her lithe form bathed in moonlight from the many windows.

“Galadriel, what have you seen?” 

Her smile was full now, her elegant cheeks creased with the upward bend of her shapely lips. She stood from her spot on the bed and drew her wispy nightgown away from her feet, gracefully and silently striding to one of the open windows. She stood like a goddess within the silver spill of moonlight, her topaz eyes gazing out across the shielded treetops with their spiraling staircases and silent talain where her people slept safe and secure. The evening was late, and it was quiet, with only the faintest whisper of the night birds and distant streams. All was well, and all was whole. 

“We must travel to Imladris, my love, as soon as we are able.” Her words were light and pleasurable, hinting at nothing spectacular yet suggesting a hidden motive. 

Celeborn raised a curious brow as he gazed at his wife, though he had stopped questioning her judgements and insights long ago. “Very well, my heart. I shall inform Marchwarden Haldir of our intended absence after the dawn.” He pulled back the covers on the bed and patted her abandoned spot, silver hair cascading over his shoulders with the movement. 

The elven lady smiled at her husband, though she made no move to return to bed. All remnants of tiredness had fled from her mind. 

Celeborn was truly intrigued at the delighted sparkle in her eyes. He dropped the sheets and leaned up on his elbows, fully awake and attentive. 

“What have you seen?” he insisted, now sincerely curious. 

Galadriel sighed and turned to the window again, placing her hand upon the living mallorn branches that were woven into the woodwork of their talan. The energy that flooded the tree’s form washed into her own body, energizing her and lifting her spirits. She had not felt so delighted for a long while. 

Looking upon the moon she grinned, the image of her cousin, of Maglor Feanorian, once again resting in her mind. 

Her reply was jovial. 

“He has returned.”

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It was far to the northeast that another elf tossed in his sleep, though his chaotic thoughts were not filled with elation. The war that played out in his mind was dark and cruel; the fire that licked at his skin was agonizing and eternal, promising tortuous pain; the screams of his kin were like nails upon slate, grating against his brain and squeezing the blood from his veins. He felt the touch of cold metal against his skin, felt the hands of the dying grasping futilely at his boots, felt his own blood drip into his eyes and blind him. He found himself running, fleeing the horrors of his past down long twisted halls that never ended. Always there were footsteps behind him urging him onward, scratching and scraping at the rough granite underfoot, chasing him until his lungs were fit to burst from exertion. And suddenly a wall rose before him, painted red with the blood of slain bodies that lined the floor like a carpet. He could run no further and his blood boiled in hatred and fear, so he turned and drew his sword, ready to fight, ready to die. Yet it was not a demon that met him at this dead end; it was not some horrible twisted figment of his memories and imagination mixed into one grotesque form. It was simply an elf in mithril armor with hair the color of a raven’s feather, and on his tabard was the seven pointed star of Feanor. 

Murder. Betrayer. 

Kinsalyer. 

Maglor Feanorian. 

The Noldo’s face was shadowed as he attacked. His strength was impeccable and unmatchable, his force was terrifying. His heavy greatsword moved like a blur, skill wrought of hundreds of years of war and combat. As always the dreamer’s sword was struck from his numb hands, clattering on the stones and jolting dread into his very core. He felt the cold edge of metal against his chest, closed his eyes as the sword slid agonizingly forward through muscle and ribs, promising his heart a kiss of death . . . 

He screamed. 

And woke up in the middle of his vast bed, gown soaked with sweat and muscles tensed in the apprehension of expected combat. 

Thranduil Oropherion flung a hand over his eyes and rubbed vigorously, chasing the remnants of the nightmare from his mind. He twisted in his bed until the tangled sheets were free from his trembling body and he could sit up to lean heavily against the headboard. He closed his eyes and pursed his lips, urging the rapid expansion of his chest to settle. It was always like this with these nightmares, rare though they were. Few other dreams could inspire such a reaction in his body, but this one always saw him waking with fear and anger in his heart, his body as tense as a bow string prime for firing. 

After a moment his breathing returned to normal and the wild pounding of his heart quieted. He shook his head in frustration and combed his silver-gold hair away from his eyes with tense fingers, swinging his legs over the side of his mattress. Fatigued and unsettled was his gait as he made his way to a nearby table with a flask and goblet sitting on top. He unstopped the flask and poured the dark, fragrant Dorwinion into the silver goblet, his gaze entranced by the play of the amber lanterns on the swirling liquid. His tongue tingled as he took a sip of the rejuvenating wine, and finally he was able to relax, the tension seeping from his form. 

This was the most vivid kinslaying dream he had ever had. Before it had been blurred like the distant memory it was, but tonight it had been exceptionally intense, as if he had been reliving the entire experience. It had not happened exactly like that, of course, but the details of death and panic were accurate. He had been a young warrior when the sons of Feanor had demanded the Silmaril from Dior of Doriath, but he had fought as any other warrior would have. He had been terrified, just like his dream self – but alongside the fear was the boiling hatred, the feeling of betrayal and despair that came from the slaying of kin. He had used that budding wrath as strength to aid his efforts during the battle, but it had not matched the skill of the Feanorian he had faced. Maglor had come upon him alone in a deep hall where no others could see or hear him. He had been just another Sindar elf, another body to skewer and leave on the ground to bleed out into the depths of the earth. He had been ready to face his fate, if only he could score a hit on the proud Feanorian before he was slain. Yet to his surprise Maglor’s sword did not fall on his form like it had in the dream. Maglor had not engaged him at all. He had merely taken one glance at the exhausted young warrior before him and turned away, his fierce armored figure disappearing into the depths of the Thousand Caves. 

That had stung Thranduil more than a sword blow ever could. 

Yet he had survived the day along with his mother and father, though the same could not be said for many of his close friends. The carnage that he witnessed during the kinslaying was an image that would never leave his mind, and the anger that he felt on that day was a burning fire that refused to extinguish itself. 

The images dancing through his mind were interrupted as the door to his chambers was flung open and the concerned form of his son rushed through. 

“Ada! I heard . . .” 

Legolas’ flustered voice faltered at the sight of Thranduil’s stern expression. He took a steadying breath and closed the door behind him, then walked across the room to stand before his father. 

“I heard you call out. It sounded . . . it was like you were in pain.” 

Thranduil exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. “It was nothing, only a dream.” Bright eyes snapped open and flashed confidence at his son. “I am fine.”

His son’s green-blue eyes showed that he was not convinced. “If it was only a dream, then why are you so pale? And your gown,” he reached out and pinched the sodden fabric between his fingers, “is soaked through. Ada, what did you see?”

Thranduil hesitated, biting the inside of his lip in frustration and casting a hard look down at his son. Finally he inclined his head, shaking it slightly and causing his hair to slip forward from his shoulders. 

“A distant past, my Green Leaf. That is all. Nothing more shall come of it, I promise.” He reached out and took Legolas’ chin between his thumb and forefinger, stroking it lovingly. “Return to your rest my son, and seek me out in the morning. There is much business for us to attend to.” 

Legolas seemed skeptical of Thranduil’s calm reply, but he merely nodded and clasped his father’s forearm. “Call on me if you need me, ada. I would not have you suffer anything – even a memory – alone.” With that he inclined his head in a respectful bow and left Thranduil’s bedchamber, closing the door silently behind him. 

The somber king stared after him for a short while, his heart filled with fondness for his loyal and affectionate son. Legolas was not as stubborn as he had been in his younger days, yet he was steadfast and unwilling to give up when faced with difficulties. At times those difficulties included Thranduil’s adamant manner regarding decisions of his own well-being. He was a king that cared for his people, perhaps too strongly at times, and often ignored his own needs until his son insisted that he rest. 

Yet rest seemed like an evil thing now, with the bitter tang of his recent nightmares spoiling the taste of the wine on his tongue. He relinquished the goblet and stalked to the fireplace, slipping down into a wide chair layered with deep red cushions. Into the low dancing flames he gazed, his thoughts distanced from the woodland realm in that moment. They branched off across the realm of time, taking him back to his ancient home of vast caves and old friends. He walked those underground pathways once again, reveling in the grandiose of the architecture that his own palace in Eryn Galen would never match. It had been a magical place before the cursed Silmaril had brought doom into its halls. 

Still, even as he reminisced about his distant past, a sense of foreboding enveloped his heart with cold, shadowy tendrils. He could not banish the face of Maglor Feanorian from his mind. Even through the fog he could see the ocean-gray eyes with clarity, could see the sorrow and regret that rested within. These eyes unsettled him more than the shining armor with its seven-pointed star or the fiercely gleaming sword that promised death upon kin. They seemed more than a memory, almost like a vision, as if they promised something unknown to come – and that sent pure unease cascading through his body like a flood. 

Something was amiss in the world, and for some reason he sensed that the nightmare he had suffered tonight was only a premonition of what was to come. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------- 

Maglor had forgotten how intoxicatingly splendid hot water felt against the skin. 

It had ages since he had taken a bath with water heated by the flames of a fire. He had always bathed in the sea during his exile, or in a stream if one was available. Even when Maedhros was still alive, and the two were living in what quarters they could during their final days together, Maglor would have to bathe in cold water. There was simply no time to warm the water, or even on some nights no convenience of a fire. The last days of his old life had been spent in poor conditions that would have shamed the grandeur of Feanor’s houses in Aman. 

Yet even as he relished the liquid warmth seeping into his muscles his shame weighed upon him. You do not deserve this, you do not deserve comfort, you do not deserve warmth . . . His mind would throw these accusations at him just as he was near to letting go of his doubts and succumbing to the comfort of Elrond’s generosity. It was like balancing on the edge of a sword blade – one moment he would find his balance and forget his concentration, the next he would stumble and fall upon the blade. This was a battle of his conscience that he feared would not be won any time soon, or perhaps that he did not deserve to win. Why should he forget the lives that he took in cold blood? Why should he allow himself to smile and laugh when his victims were formless and lost, wandering in Mandos’ Halls, never to dance again until the day that they might be reborn? It did not seem right that he should still feel the warmth of the sun and feel the soft coolness of grass under his feet when he had stolen that pleasure from so many others. 

But Elrond was not far from his side in all of this. The peredhel was wise and intuitive and seemed to know exactly was thoughts swirled uneasily in Maglor’s mind. He kept true to his promise and did not leave Maglor alone for even a moment. Elrond drew Maglor’s bath himself in the small water closet that adjoined to his bedchamber, setting a kettle of water to boil over the low-burning hearth outside to add warmth. Maglor stood still and dazed as he watched the dark haired lord work, still not believing the turn of events that had led him to this place. It took no effort at all for Elrond to lead him to the readied tub and remove his clothes and hair braid, for Maglor trusted him completely. He felt no embarrassment or humiliation as Elrond assessed his body, now much thinner than it had been before his life on the lonely shores. A concerned light flitted through Elrond’s eyes at the prominent ribs and hipbones (a result of a meager diet over thousands of years), though he was careful to keep much of his distress hidden. The sight of Maglor’s weakened body saddened his soul to no end, but he knew with a bit of time and care the Feanorian could return to his former glory. And it was no doubt that the Lord of Imladris would provide the utmost exceptional care for the elf that was like a father to him. 

Elrond’s touch was delicate as he maneuvered Maglor into the tub and set about scrubbing his cream-pale skin. He used only the finest oils and soaps that he had in his possession, lathering the Feanorian until he was certain that Maglor could no longer feel the years of sand and salt wearing upon his skin. As he worked he spoke of the events that had passed since the conclusion of the War of Wrath, after which Maglor had disappeared. He spoke of Gil-Galad and Lindon and the wonderful years that he had spent under the rule of Fingolfin’s grandson after Maglor and Maedhros had left in search of the Silmaril. He spoke of Galadriel and Celeborn, who he had developed a great friendship with, and of their beautiful daughter, who had stolen his heart from the moment he met her. He spoke of Elros and his valor during the War of Wrath, for which he and his followers were rewarded with the mighty island of Nùmenor, and for which he was granted knowledge and long life despite his choice of mortality. His tone was subdued as he spoke of the Edain, and he left much of the fate of Nùmenor out of the tale so as not to distress Maglor. In fact, he disclosed nothing about the growing menace Sauron, whose darkness was spreading once again through the barren mountains of Mordor. He only mentioned the rise and fall of cities and the deaths of both Celebrimbor and Gil-Galad, promising Maglor that he would elaborate on the details in the near future. For now he only wished for the Feanorian to feel safe and comfortable – to tell him that Sauron had wreaked havoc upon his kin and still remained in the world, gathering his strength, was not something that would sit lightly upon his already overwhelmed mind. 

When Maglor inquired about Celebrian’s absence, Elrond sighed softly and lost himself in darker memories. He told Maglor the truth, and in a way felt lighter for doing so. 

He reiterated the tale of Celebrian’s capture and imprisonment by the orcs of Redhorn Pass, of her torture and injury, of her rescue by his twin sons, and of his attempts to heal her body. Whereas he was able to purge the poison of the orcs’ weapons from her blood, he was not able to cleanse her mind of the horrors she had experienced. The event had torn her fëa into jagged pieces and no amount of love from her family had been able to save her. She had insisted that her heart’s healing lay across the sea in Aman, though it agonized her to leave her family. Elrond had been grieved by her choice but had accepted its necessity and given her his blessing. Thus she had left Middle Earth, never to return, only a century earlier. 

After his story Maglor fell silent and brooded at his expanse of newfound knowledge. The grief of Elrond’s loss weighed on his soul along with his own sorrow. He reached up to grasp Elrond’s hand and squeezed it tightly, attempting to give comfort with his touch as Elrond had for him. “I am sorry . . . “ he whispered, one phrase that encompassed a multitude of apologies. Elrond squeezed his hand back, imbuing his grip with the strength of love. 

“We have both suffered, it seems,” he remarked, leaning down to place a tender kiss on top of Maglor’s black hair. “But there is light to be found in the coming days. Darkness is not forever, Maglor. You will heal in this place.” He threaded his fingers through the damp ebon strands and worked a steady rhythm, massaging away the long journey’s filth. 

They sat in companionable silence for a short time after, during which Maglor finally succumbed to the warmth of the water and the feeling of Elrond’s skilled fingers on his scalp. He leaned his head back into the touch and closed his eyes, letting the pleasurable rubbing of fingers sooth his tired body and temporarily chase away his worries. Elrond took his time with Maglor’s hair, rinsing it and lathering it once again, then rinsing and anointing it with fragrant oil. His fingers rubbed in meditative circles against the skin of Maglor’s scalp, then his neck, and then his shoulders. He focused his healing touch on the tenser parts of the older elf’s body, pressing his palms into knotted muscles. The slowing and steadying of Maglor’s breathing reassured him that his touch was welcome and effective. The Feanorian even pressed himself backwards, as if seeking to prolong the contact – to which Elrond contently obliged. 

When at last Elrond had finished with the massaging he retrieved a towel from a nearby rack and helped Maglor stand from the now murky water. Maglor’s body had relaxed so deeply that he nearly lost his balance trying to utilize the muscles of his legs; but Elrond was quick to offer support and steadied him with firm grips on his biceps. Maglor stood dripping, body weak with fatigue from the night’s events, as Elrond draped the towel around his shoulders. Yet even with his tired exterior Maglor could not deny the warmth that had budded within him at Elrond’s touch. Those skilled fingers had sent a serene energy flowing through his veins, a love and quiet passion that he had thought lost from his body since his remaining brother had died. Long were the nights that he had spent sleeping in the embrace of the wilds, and he had grown numb to the icy fingers of wind and the biting grate of sand. Yet now, in this warm, welcoming place that held Elrond’s presence and that radiated his love and patience and strength, Maglor’s body had awoken. And though the realization of this new desire confused and frightened him, he was helpless to stop the heat pooling in his belly. 

It was true that he had entertained certain thoughts long ago about Elrond as he had grown and matured beyond his majority, but he had always quashed them with self-doubt and respect for his charge. Maglor had been lonely even before his exile and hadn’t many souls to share his frustrations with. At times he and Maedhros had lain together, but they had never ventured beyond intimate touches and gestures. But it had still been enough to quiet the yearning of Maglor’s heart and ease the pain of his soul and body. 

Yet now, with everything laid bare before them, with the grief of their pasts shared, and with Elrond’s touch rekindling the love that had been dormant during Maglor’s solitary existence in exile, he could not stop the reaction of his own body. He was not modest by any means, yet the stiffening of flesh between his thighs had the power to weigh his shoulders with self-reproach. He turned his body slightly away from Elrond, pulling the towel tighter around his shoulders and biting his lip in distress. But the hand that rested itself on his bare shoulder offered only comfort, not judgement, as it pulled him back around. 

“It’s alright,” Elrond reassured him, smiling softly and combing Maglor’s wet hair away from his eyes. “Don’t hide from me. Please.” 

Maglor gazed at the wise elf for a moment, his eyes conflicted, then croaked out, “I am sorry . . . it has been a very long time since . . . well, since someone has . . . touched me. Like you have.” He shook his head slightly, frustration clear on his brow. “Your sons bathed with me in a stream, but I did not know them as I know you. I didn’t think that I would feel this now . . . I cannot explain it, only that I have been so lonely . . . “ Elrond held up a hand and stroked Maglor’s cheek, causing his words to falter. 

“There is nothing to apologize for, Maglor. I understand.” He cupped Maglor’s jaw in his palm and stroked the strong curve with his thumb, his grey eyes filled with compassionate empathy. He smiled softly, sweetly. “And I can help you.” 

He stepped closer to Maglor, his form only a few fingers shorter than his old guardian; his free hand moved lower and his fingers parted the front of Maglor’s towel, discreetly slipping within.

Maglor caught Elrond’s wrist in his hand before he could move it further. 

“No, Elrond. You do not have to do this.” His voice was firm, but trembled slightly with the effort. “You are like a son to me –“ 

“And what does that matter?” Elrond interjected, grasping the side of Maglor’s neck with passionate intensity. “I am not a fool. I know the things you did with Maedhros when you thought I was not listening, and I know you felt no shame. You needed to share in your love, your fear, your loneliness – and what came of it was simply the affection of brotherhood.” Maglor’s grip slackened and Elrond’s fingers moved forward, finding the tender skin of the junction of thigh and hip. He rested his touch there and did not move it, waiting for the permission that he sought. He could feel turbulent pulse of the femoral artery beneath his fingertips. 

His voice quieted as he leaned closer, his words exuding adoration. “I love you Maglor. Not as a lover, not as a parent, but simply as yourself – I thought you were dead, and I grieved. Now you are here with me, safe in my arms, and I will not hide my joy. I will do anything I can to help you heal the wounds you carry, and this is no exception.” His fingers moved, stroking a circle against the hot skin of Maglor’s hip. The Feanorian’s face was conflicted, but his breathy sigh foretold of his need. “Let me help you, Maglor. Let me do this one, simple thing, because I love you.” 

After a moment of hesitation Maglor finally inclined his chin, closing his eyes and exhaling a steady breath. He curled his arms around Elrond’s back, drawing him close for an intimate embrace. The younger elf smiled lovingly and rested his forehead against the Feanorian’s as his fingers moved inwards and slipped around the hard rod of flesh that spoke of desperate longing. At that touch Maglor gasped, nostrils flaring and body tensing at the force of the sensation. Flames kindled in his belly and licked at his crumbling control. His skin prickled and crawled with the pleasure of touch, the touch that he had not been granted for many lonely lifetimes. He moaned deep in his throat as Elrond built a slow and tender rhythm. 

The towel around his shoulders slid open, but the warmth of Elrond’s body pressed against his caused him not to notice. He focused only on the feeling of sweet skin against skin, of the sparking of nerves too long neglected. It did not take long until the fire in his belly grew into a maelstrom, consuming every inch of his body and sending bright lights to flash behind his closed eyelids. He bit his lip to stifle the moan that built in his throat at his impending release, but the muted sound was evidence enough to his pleasure. He came with a force that nearly crippled his knees, the reborn sensation of flesh and his intense love for Elrond combining into an unstoppable wave that enveloped his wildly beating heart. He struggled to catch his breath as Elrond withdrew his hand and kissed him tenderly upon his brow. They stood there in the embrace for a while longer, Maglor leaning against Elrond and waiting for his heartbeat to steady, Elrond holding Maglor and drinking in the sweetness of their shared intimacy. 

Finally Elrond stepped back, cleaning Maglor with the towel before taking the Feanorian’s hand in his own. “It is late. Let us go to bed.” 

He helped Maglor dress in a light gown and combed his hair until it lay glossy and straight upon his shoulders. Then he moved about the room, extinguishing the candles in their towers until only the warm glow of the hearth remained. He guided Maglor to his large bed and pulled back the covers for him, then removed his heavy outer robe before slipping in beside the older elf. They faced each other and lay in each other’s arms, legs tangled beneath the sheets. 

“It is almost like when you were young, and I would hold you until you fell asleep,” Maglor reminisced faintly, his voice dulled with impending reverie. His storm-grey eyes held a sea of love for the peredhel that lay next to him. “I would sing to you of Aman, and of magical creatures . . .” 

Elrond smiled warmly and threaded his fingers through Maglor’s grasp. “I miss those days,” he lamented. 

The faintest twist of a smile lit upon Maglor’s perfect lips, sending a wave of joy and hope cascading through Elrond’s heart. “So do I.” 

And with that they grew quiet, gazing into each other’s eyes until exhaustion stole their consciousness away. Their hands remained clasped, the grip iron strong with the intense love of a father and son, a guardian and charge, and of an undying friendship that bloomed despite doubtful circumstances. It was a love that had survived over long years of war and despair, of grief and sorrow, of pain and doubt – and now that they were reunited, that love shined brighter than the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it was definitely a long chapter, right? I hope you guys enjoyed it! I know that the parts with Galadriel and Thranduil were small, but they'll have a larger part to play later in the story as well as other major characters. I hope that I'm doing alright with the multitude of characters here - I usually write with only a couple at a time. It's pretty exciting and terrifying to include so many in one story! 
> 
> I'll try to have the next chapter up soon, but no promises. As always thank you for reading and feel free to leave a review, questions, or concerns below! ;)


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